Song at Dawn: 1150 in Provence (The Troubadours Quartet)

by Jean Gill

  It was a magnificent, tongue-in-cheek walk along the tight-rope between blasphemy and frivolity, and any listener could understand why an Archbishop might frown on the Lady of Narbonne and her cultured court. No cleric had been foolish enough to put himself in the position of listener and if the Archbishop felt his ears burn that day, he would have to wait his own turn for the throne on Sunday, to preach hellfire and damnation against all women, a doctrine for which he felt very special affection. Many of the same courtiers enjoying the Court of Love would also be present at the Archbishop’s Sermon, including Ermengarda herself, if only to stare him down, but that was all part of living in the world. And of being young. There was time enough to repent. Meanwhile, there was a spectacle to enjoy, with some intellectual sport and a thousand opportunities for a woman’s glance to cross a man’s, full of promise.

  The first supplicant entered and the Hearing began. Estela suspected that the knights and Ladies kneeling before the thrones were acting a part rather than bringing their own problems for public judgement - or even those of their friends - but it didn’t prevent her from being caught up in asking herself ‘What would I do if? Or ‘What is the right thing to do?’

  Kneeling before the Queens, a knight posed the first question. ‘Suppose that a chevalier has gained permission from his dearest love to marry another and after the wedding he keeps his distance for a month. He then returns to his first lover, saying that he wished to test her constancy and is overjoyed to find her true. She however now rejects his advances, saying that his love is no longer worthy and he has the liberty he sought from her. Is she right?’

  There was a conference between the three women and then Aliénor was chosen to give judgement. Gravely, she stood and pronounced. ‘It is well-known that true lovers often test each other by pretending they have found someone else so it is an offence against love itself to refuse a lover’s caresses on such grounds. Unless there is some other reason, this Lady lacks courtesy. Where there is no jealousy, there is no love.’ A ripple of comment and polite applause greeted the verdict as the Knight bowed his thanks, left and a Dame trod the rose path.

  ‘These two men are equals in birth and in honour, with only one difference,’ declared a lady petitioner, the two unfortunates so described looking suitably hopeful and worried. ‘Their wealth. And I don’t know whether it is more courteous to choose the richer or the poorer.’ She shrugged her delicate shoulders.

  Gravely the three Queens murmured between themselves, then Ermengarda took the judgement on herself. ‘If a poor man is well-bred and noble, then there would have to be a very good reason for a rich, noble-man to be chosen instead, rather than the poor, who needs the money this Lady would bring. Indeed, a Lady blessed with all attributes, including wealth, is very likely to be right for a poor man, especially as nothing is more painful for honourable people than to see other honest people in want. So it is laudable for a rich Lady to seek a poor but noble lover. One of the best pleasures of love is to provide for a lover’s needs.

  However, if the Lady herself lacks wealth, she had far better choose the rich lover. Otherwise, if both lovers find themselves in want, their constancy will be strained beyond bearing. Poverty is a shameful topic for all honest people; it leads to obsessions and to tormented nights that chase out love.’

  The petitioner replied, ‘I thank my Lady for her wisdom. And if the two men should be equal in all ways, including their homage to the Lady and their hopes to become her lover? Which one then should be chosen?’

  Ermengarda didn’t hesitate. ‘Then he who asks first should win the Lady. Or if it so happens that they ask at the same moment, then the Lady is free to choose whomsoever of the two her heart desires more.’

  Next, a young girl asked, ‘Suppose a lady leaves her lover because she has married and the lover says she is behaving dishonourably to him.’

  Aliénor replied. ‘Marriage in no way interrupts or interferes with the right to love and be loved so the lover is right. Unless his Lady gives up love itself, she has no right to leave him.’

  ‘And,’ continued the same girl, ‘is love a stronger feeling between lovers or between spouses?’

  Aliénor responded to some whispering behind her and sat down graciously to allow Bèatriz, quiet but self-assured, twelve and single, to show what she had learned. ‘Affection between spouses and true love are completely different and opposite in nature. The word ‘love’ should not therefore be used of the two relationships but merely confuses discussion. No comparison is possible of a situation where each has a bodily duty to the other and a situation where a joyous gift is made and where each strives to be worthy of the other.

  On the other hand, one should not seek the love of someone whom one would be ashamed to marry. This would be dishonourable.’ Bèatriz sat down again with an almost audible sigh of relief and was rewarded with a reassuring hand on her shoulder, a hand that her own stole up to touch lightly, a mere polite acknowledgement of a gentleman’s service. The sort of touch that was allowed. The sort of touch that awakened womanhood, to burn its slow way into the light, sometimes in an hour, sometimes over years.

  Another Lady, older. ‘The lover of a Lady has been gone a long time, on an expedition Oltra mar. She has given up hope of seeing him again as have all those around her, so she seeks a new lover. But a friend of her first lover reacts violently to what he sees a betrayal. She argues with him, citing the fact that when a man dies, his Lady is allowed to love again after two years so why should this not be so in her case, after she has passed more years than that with no word. Which of them is right?’

  Aliénor again. ‘A Lady does not have the right to break off with her lover unless he has broken faith. This is even more the case when the lover is absent by necessity or for a reason that does him great honour. Nothing should make the Lady gladder than to receive news from far countries of her lover’s prowess in battle. The fact that he has sent no messages is trivial in view of the great mission he accomplishes and it also shows his discretion for he is not willing to confide knowledge of their love to another.

  True love is by its very nature secret and private, never to be spoken of to anyone other than the lover.’ Estela enjoyed the whispers and exchanged glances around the Hall as known liaisons were highlighted with mere allusions and a knowing look. Then she flushed as she wondered if some of the knowing looks and allusions were directed at her.

  A man this time, dragging one leg, whether for real or not, Estela couldn’t say. ‘A lover has lost an eye or a leg in brave combat. Is his Lady right to refuse him because she now finds him ugly?’

  Ermengarda. ‘Such a Lady has no honour in rejecting an infirmity which shows valour. In fact, true Ladies find such a man more desirable!’ Amongst the usual rustle as Ermengarda sat again, Estela saw Peire lean across Aliénor and she half-heard, half read his lips before he bent to kiss Ermengarda’s hand. ‘I never thought I would regret having two legs and two eyes, my Lady.’ His next words were hidden in the kiss but Aliénor laughed aloud and Ermengarda suddenly looked as young as Bèatriz, her face turned like a flower to the mischief brimming over beside her. Catching his eye, Guiraut smoothly changed places with Peire, paying court to Aliénor, who seemed to be enjoying the comedy on the Dais as much as that in the Hall.

  Next. ‘What presents should lovers give each other?’

  Once more, Bèatriz plucked up confidence, reciting, ‘A handkerchief, hair ribbons, a gold or silver coronet, a platter, a mirror, a belt, a purse, cords, a comb, embroidered sleeves, gloves, a ring, perfume, fastenings, are examples of appropriate presents between lovers.’

  ‘And if the present is expensive, say, a horse or amour, and from a Lord, and a Knight has no need of it, how may he turn such a present down without offence?’ This was beyond Bèatriz and she allowed Aliénor to replace her.

  ‘In such a case, a knight or a Lady may say their thanks and ask the Lord to keep it in their care until such time as they should need it.’


  Another Lady. ‘Suppose a Knight of unquestioned honour, valiant in war, chivalrous at court, sans pareil in the musical arts, makes duets at night that lack all harmony and his lover is a drab from a ditch, it is surely the duty of any friend with honour to chase the drab back to her ditch and rescue the Knight from his false note. The drab of course thinks she can become a Lady by climbing on a man’s horse and riding him to death.’

  Estela blanched and then blazed with fury, restrained only by Sancha’s firm grip on one arm and low murmur, ‘Don’t let her win. She’s no-one. There’s someone behind this.’ Estela shook herself free but had already regained control and was thinking fast, one hand reassuring itself against the steel in her under-shift. Sancha was right; this woman was no different from all those who had preceded her, modest and well-attired, primed with her question, but this time by someone with a different and specific target. Amusing allusions were one thing; this was a crude and direct attack. Estela stood up at the same time as Ermengarda and the two women, united in their knowledge of a man who was not there, looked steadily at each other, over the head of the supposed petitioner. The silence in the Hall had changed; it scented blood now.

  Cool as spring-water, Ermegarda spoke, ‘We Queens have given many judgements, and have more to say, but you speak of music. I have three of the greatest troubadours to-be gracing this day with us.’ She indicated the three youths behind her, all merriment wiped from their faces. ‘But they will forgive me if I ask someone else’s view for as a musician I know of none better qualified to speak, in the absence of my Lords Dragonetz and Marcabru.’ The ripple at the name Dragonetz needed no explanation to Estela. She knew exactly what was being said and she conjured her mother’s shade to keep the steel in her back and not turn to that in her skirts. Was this tribute or execution, Estela wondered briefly as she curtseyed and felt three hundred eyes prick her like a pincushion. Did Ermengarda trust her to deal with this or was she herself a ‘friend of honour’ who wanted to to see the ditch drab driven out?

  ‘My Lords, my Ladies, my Good Dame,’ Estela began, hoping her voice was free of vitriol. ‘I think the petitioner confuses two issues in one here. To deal with them one at a time: There seems to be a complaint regarding dissonance in night music and yet we are told that the Knight is a perfect musician so how can this be? It can only be that the complainant’s knowledge of music is inadequate and that she - it is ‘she’ I take it that you represent?’ The figure gave an involuntary movement and Estela smiled to herself. That meant yes. ‘She mistook the perfect fourths for an error. Is that not so?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ was the muted response. Ermengarda’s expression had the merest hint of a smile but it was enough to encourage Estela. She had been right; this was a mere messenger, spewing undigested filth. She understood nothing of music and nothing of her message, although she clearly knew it

  was meant to do harm. Whatever she’d been paid, it wasn’t enough.

  ‘And the second question has already been answered here today so I merely quote my Lady Ermengarda in brief. If the Lady you describe as a drab in a ditch is merely poor, but otherwise well-born and well-educated, in every way a suitable match for a marriage it is laudable for a rich Knight to seek a poor but noble lover. One of the best pleasures of love is to provide for a lover’s needs.’ She bowed her head towards Ermengarda in acknowledgement of the earlier judgement.

  Sulky in defeat, the woman did try a last challenge. ‘But is she well-born and well-educated and worthy of marriage?’

  Now Estela smiled, clear and full at Ermengarda, who pronounced clearly, for the Hallfull to hear. ‘Oh, yes, she is all of that, and much much more.’ The Viscomtesse turned a less charitable stare on the woman kneeling before her. ‘Tort-n’avetz, you are wrong,’ she said, pronouncing each word separately, like a death sentence. Then, unexpectedly, she turned to Peire behind her. ‘What do you think on this question of music?’

  Ablaze with mischief, he came forward to stand beside her. He put a hand to his chin in the mummers’ gesture of deep thought, he held his head as if the thinking hurt and then he pointed at the petitioner. Emphasising each word, in perfect mockery of Ermengarda’s grave tones, he repeated ‘You are wrong!’ There was another silence throughout the Hall, no-one daring to react and then a sound few had heard pealed out. Ermengarda laughed out loud.

  ‘Go home, old crow,’ Estela heard Peire tell the kneeling woman, while relieved, embarrassed laughter broke out all round the Hall. ‘Be grateful I don’t pluck your feathers one by one and name them all in song.’ As the woman hurried out, Estela was vaguely aware of Sancha disappearing too, but her attention quickly returned to what was now an open debate, the three troubadours matching their wit against that of the three Queens for the entertainment of all. And as they set the Laws of Love, each outdid the other, to cries of appreciation from their audience. ‘One can be loved by two people’ pronounced Aliénor, to be capped by Guimaut with ‘but one cannot have a liaison with two people at the same time.’

  If Estela was ambivalent as to whether she’d wished Dragonetz there with her, she was definitely glad Arnaut wasn’t! As it was, he was on duty and she didn’t have to school her face in its reactions to the flow of Courtly Judgements. She too was weak with laughter. And if it looked like the fun was flagging, Peire only had to say, ‘Tort-n’avetz’ and waggle a finger at Ermengarda and the whole Hall held its sides with mirth. Everyone knew how fond the Lady was of the phrase and no-one had seen it used against her to such effect. And what’s more, she was enjoying it.

  The memory that had been nagging Estela finally surfaced. Bleakness of heart, night, a low-ceilinged house in the Jewish quarter, with Aliénor giggling like a toddler in a mud-pit. The Gyptian and some cards. What had Ermengarda been told? Something upsetting about a child. Then something about a lover and she, Estela, had thought it meant Dragonetz. Bleak-hearted, she had told him to go to hell. What had the Gyptian said? It was the words Tort-n’avetz that had sparked off the memory. Yes, that was it. ‘Be happy in this, you shall know love, with one who sings and plays for you, my Lady Tort-n’avetz, My Lady ‘You-are-wrong’. Not Dragonetz after all but Peire Rogier, who was leaving soon, thought Estela in amazement. It couldn’t be, could it? And then she tried to remember what else had been said over those cards. What had she herself been told? She remembered that the Pathfinder brooch had blocked the woman’s magic - or so she said.

  At that moment there was stir in the Hall and a man pushed in, rushing up the rose path with Palace Guards chasing behind. Everyone thought it was all part of the show and there was only a slight dulling of the merriment. He didn’t seem very merry though. Two guards caught him roughly and were going to bundle him out when Ermengarda motioned them to wait and stand back. Unlike all the other supplicants of the day, the man was dressed as a peasant, a rough burlap tunic over woollen leggings probably knitted and just as badly darned by his wife. His garments were holed and dirty, his face bearded and smeared with travelling. What drew the eye first though was a recently cauterised stump where once his right hand had been, the sign of a thief.

  ‘Tell us your petition and we will see whether there can be pardon on this auspicious day,’ commanded Ermengarda, rendered magnanimous with pleasure.

  Realisation hit Estela as the peasant opened his mouth. ‘Gilles,’ she breathed and moved leaden feet towards him, bruising past those in her way, as his words drew all laughter from the day.

  ‘I seek Roxane de Montbrun,’ began the deep voice with its local bur that had warmed her childhood. ‘I was told to come here, that she calls herself Estela -’

  ‘- de Matin,’ said Estela, looking to Ermengarda in apology before raising him to his feet. On this day she had earned the right to such a gesture before asking permission. Close-up, the stump of his arm smelled of ash and roast pork. She felt sick. When she last saw him, his right arm had been a tree trunk. ‘Gilles is my man,’ she said, finding the shortest route to the truth. ‘He saved my
life. What has happened?’ she asked him. A Lady has no honour in rejecting an infirmity which shows valour.

  ‘After you left, I kept my head down, worked hard, but the Lady, your father’s wife, was only biding her time. She accused me of theft and -’ he held up what was left of his right forearm. No further explanation was needed. Ermengarda listened but said nothing. ‘I was turned out.’ Everyone knew that was a death sentence for a man disabled and branded a thief. ‘I was told where to find you and to give you two messages. This is one.’ He held up the arm again. ‘She said you should have got the other message already.’ His eyes were full of pride, as if she were still twelve and he were checking on her target practice. ‘I didn’t recognize you with your hair high and your fancy clothes. It does me good to see how well you’re doing. I just wanted to see you once and then I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘No.’ Estela looked to Ermengarda, her Liege Lord, hardly knowing what to ask her for. It was Peire who spoke. ‘Such a day needs someone to be pardoned, my Lady.’

  Me, thought Estela, may God forgive me for what this man has paid on my behalf. And already she was starting to realise what the other message had been, the one she had already received. She no longer tried to remember the Gyptian’s prediction for her. The sight of Gilles’ arm had been all it took to recall the words she wished she could forget again. You drag other people in your wake, the highborn and the lowborn, and someone will not survive the knowing of you. Yes, she had a very good idea what the other message had been. Hurry home, Dragonetz, and stay safe, she prayed.